


25 days of Fic-mas / A Christmas in Sherlock Prompts

by seaweedredandbrown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedredandbrown/pseuds/seaweedredandbrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>25 ficlets, filling prompts from @hudders-and-hiddles on Tumblr. [ On indefinite hiatus. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 –  Shopping for gifts.

A man's life was filled with tough decisions. Most of the time, the choice itself was not the hardest part – it was sticking to it that proved to be tricky.

Detective Inspector Lestrade ran a tired hand across his grey hair. He had decided that he'd buy her a present this year and he was going to do it. He was a grown man, damnit. He had done this before. Buying presents for girlfriends, both lovers and girls he was friends with. A present wouldn't really have to mean anything, would it? No, it wouldn't. He was a determined, strong man. The fact that Christmas was approaching faster than Dimmock on the day the coffee machine condescended to work and that he was still completely clueless at what to get her was certainly not going to deter him. 

Now that he was there, standing in the damp, cold December evening, his motivation was slowly yet surely starting to falter. It was all nice and jolly to go present-shopping, but he had strictly no idea what to actually get her. 

He stopped in front of the umpteenth store. Sally had once told him that shop fronts and convicted criminals had something in common – that they stared back. And boy, the window did stare back. It glanced with disdain and a hint of provocation, refusing to present him with anything else than his pitiful reflection: a weary man, clad in an old leather jacket he should have thrown out ages ago. Dashing red, glowing green and pure white exploded behind the display, engulfing the products in a whirlwind of colours, a tsunami of purchase-based contentment that failed to reach him; the little grey man on the other side of the window. 

Greg sighed and rubbed his hands against another, in a vain attempt to gain some warmth. He turned his back to the shop. There was no point in being all maudlin, was there? All around him, the noisy crowds of Christmas shoppers went about their merry business. They all seemed to have purposes, lists to check and carts to fill, effortlessly navigating through the maze of brightly decorated stalls and cheerful street vendors. Was this what loneliness felt like? He hadn't felt that awkward since his uni days, immobile in a sea of smiling faces, stuck in his own shortcomings. 

A family strolled past him, the mum checking something on her phone while happily chatting with the dad, the daughter holding both their hands, an over-sized Santa hat covering most of her adorable little face.  
The sight was endearing. Greg felt something pinching his heart, a string that recently got pulled a bit too much to his liking. Here was the maudlin mood again. This could have been him. This could have been them. This used to be them, the three of them, when he did not know, or did not wish to know – about the neighbour, the postman, the P.E. teacher and the rest of them. Now it was just the ex-wife on her phone, talking to someone else, the kid a fortnight out of two, growing in the blink of an eye, and him, his hands in his pockets and a frown on his face. 

“Perfume, Detective Inspector? A most daring choice.”

Almost ten long years of dealing with Holmeses had taught Greg one thing: they did love to make an entrance. There was no way in hell he was making them the pleasure of looking surprised, if he could avoid it. Therefore, he took his sweet time in turning to the tall man that had appeared out of thin hair next to him. Umbrella, well-kept hair, impeccable suit; poshness personified. No cute assistant in sight this time, though. That was a first. 

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. Are you here to ship me off to Dartmoor on my day off again?”

The British Government gave him something that could have passed for a smile and directed his attention to the shop window, tapping it ever so lightly with the tip of his umbrella. Using it as a master's stick, Mycroft showed him a small bottle, ornate with a delicate, flowery pattern. 

“I am led to believe that this one is quite popular with ladies of Miss Hooper's status.” 

“How did you... I mean, no, I am not shopping for Molly Hooper, thank you very much.”

“Of course not.” Another flickering hint of a smile. “Neither am I searching for a suitable present for my personal assistant.” Ah, that explained her absence. “Would you like, per chance, to continue your non-shopping inside? It is quite humid outside, and there is a little matter that I wish to entertain you with.”

Oh. Obviously. Mycroft Holmes, just randomly passing by, offering gift advice? No way in hell. The man had motives that Gregory was not sure he wanted to hear about... but it was indeed cold outside and Mycroft had asked politely this time. Remembering calls in the middle of the night and black cars looming along his commute, Greg decided that this wasn't so bad, after all. He was even given the illusion of choice. How delightful. 

With a sigh and a silent curse to whatever damned quest the heir to the house of Holmes was about to send him onto, the detective followed the civil servant inside. He just needed to buy that flower-patterned bottle as discreetly as possible, right?


	2. Day 2 – Hot cocoa

She was not there to see him, she knew that much. It was completely a normal thing to do, to go there. Something he'd call a most boring situation and that she chose to label as a harmless social call. Except that it was everything but harmless, but that was beside the point. Just a nice chat with Mrs Hudson, nothing wrong with that.   
She definitively had not prepared, let alone primped herself – carefully choosing a lipstick that wasn't too red, a dress that wasn't too fit, a hat that wasn't too cute – just in case they would, god knew what, meet in the corridor or something. She wasn't there for him, not at all. She had painted her disinterest for him all over her face, in letters bold enough that even someone without his most powerful mind would not be able to miss them. 

She had moved on. 

She wasn't there for him, so she carefully controlled the length of her steps and the speed of her stride, so that they would not give away her complete and total absence of anticipation. She did not hesitate one second before knocking on the blue-painted door. Her heart did not skip a beat when the hinges creaked softly and the door opened. 

Molly Hopper took a small breath and glued her best grin onto her little face as she stepped into 221 B, Baker Street, smiling back to Mrs Hudson's enthusiastic greetings. 

“Do come inside, dear, it's freezing outside!” 

She did not look longingly towards the ascending stairs as she followed the older lady into her quarters. Moreover, she certainly did not listen attentively, sitting with her back upright, at the edge of her seat, for any sort of noise that might or might not come from the apartment upstairs. She did not half-expect something that would miraculously cover Mrs Hudson's cheerful babbling, like the telling shriek of an unwilling violin, the stomping of an excited foot or the shooting of a poor, unlucky wall.

Ugh. She was an idiot.   
Why couldn't she see that she had moved on?

Molly forced herself to breathe and come back to the here and now, to the little kitchen drenched in all its blissful British cosiness, the feeling of the warmth slowly penetrating her frozen fingers, the rattling of the cups and the... delicious smell of cinnamon?

Weren't they supposed to have tea? 

She didn't think Mrs Hudson would be the one to fancy Chai. Was she troubling herself for her sake? And she was just sitting there, with her coat still on and everything. Her mum wouldn't have approved. 

“... and so I said to her, ‘Mrs Turner, of course they'd be having divorce, otherwise, what was the point of having married ones?’ and you'd never believe what she had the nerves to...”  
“Hum, Mrs Hudson... Do you need any help?” 

Molly had jumped to her feet, her cheeks flustered, startling the landlady. She needed action, something to keep her hands busy. 

“I'm sorry, I was... I mean, would you like me to lend a hand?”

Her kind offer earned her a pat on the arm and a plate of marshmallows. 

“Go back to your seat, dear. It'll be ready in just a minute.”

Ugh. You knew you had reached a new low when Mrs Hudson took it upon herself to feed you and provide you with basic human kindness. 

Molly sat back and forced herself not to sigh (and not to think about upstairs or, even worse, about him). Instead, she lost herself in the humming from the TV in the living room (something, something the government is out to get us); in the tapping of an evening rain on the windows, soft and ever-present in the dark, damp month of December; in the cold, sleek surface of the plate in her hands; in the mouth-watering richness of the aroma that rose from whatever magic Mrs Hudson was working over her hotplate. 

This was nice, wasn't it, once in a while? An afternoon tea with Martha, pretending to talk about the weather and the life they lived, those gentlemen. 

Yes. Those gentlemen. 

This gentleman, and the life he lived, drenched in all its dreadful wonder. Without her. 

The tears came softly, one by one. She did not feel them. She absolutely refused to acknowledge them. They fell down her cheeks in silent streams of salted sadness – or was that resignation? 

They had shared so much. She had been there for him. He had told her that she meant something to him – that she mattered; that she was the one who mattered the most. At no point she had believed that one to be true, not even in her wildest dreams or most delusional episodes. 

It hurt. It had hurt and it still did, but that was okay, because she had moved on. There had been Tom. Well, she'd rather forget about Tom, actually. He may have been a mistake, the poor thing. But at least, she had tried. Was it okay to give up now, when she had tried really hard and yet couldn't do it? 

A squeeze on her shoulder brought her back to reality. Mrs Hudson was giving her a big, tight, Martha Hudson's Special – the kind of hugs one can't forget (and possibly can't forgive either, given how painful broken ribs are).   
Her eyelashes fluttered, her dry throat tightened and she let out a long, raspy breath. 

“I'm good, I'm good, I'm... I'm sorry. But I'm good, Mrs Hudson, I really am.”

Molly pushed Mrs Hudson away, gently, and rubbed her eyes with a crumpled old tissue from the depths of her pocket. A large, sturdy mug had appeared on the table beside her, its cream-coloured content still steaming hot – looking delicious and, if Molly's nose was to be believed, laced to the brim with sugar and Martha's very own herbal soothers.   
Well, it was certainly going to be a very relaxing afternoon, wasn't it? 

“I, uh, I...” 

The housekeeper's knowing, reassuring smile pushed her forward. Moving on, moving on. She had to keep on trying, after all. 

Bracing herself, Molly swallowed down a healthy gulp of hot chocolate. This wasn't that bad. She immediately drank another. Not bad at all. It tasted very sweet, and somehow flowery, reminding her of...

… A certain present she had received recently. Oh, yes, she could talk about that. That'd make for a nice introductory subject, before they got down to business. 

“Greg Lestrade asked me out to dinner!” The words blurted out of her mouth, struggling to get free. 

“Oh, dear, that's wonderful!”

Another hug. 

“I'm so happy for you, the Detective Inspector's such a nice man.”

Quick, Molly, add something before the words “dishy” and “definitively not married to his work” make an unwelcome appearance in this conversation. 

“Yes, I'm very excited. We're going to one of those posh restaurants near the Strand. It's early days, but it's going well so far.”

“This is wonderful, wonderful news, really. Come on, now, don't make this old woman wait. I want to hear everything about it!”

“Oh, well, this is actually funny, because...”

Molly's fingers loosened their grip on the cup as the well-known reposeful powers of cacao-based hot beverages sent waves of calm through her spine. She'd have to ask Martha for the recipe. That stuff was strong! For a second there, she had almost forgotten that she loved Sherlock Holmes and that he would never love her back.


	3. Day 3 – Winter Wonderland / Day 11 – Mulled Wine

Molly reached out her hand, staggering, her knees shaking. Greg stepped backward, his arms wide open. 

“Come on, one more step. You can do it!”

A woman nearby nudged her friend and pointed at the 'cute little couple'. They went off giggling like school girls. Molly blushed and moved forward, trying to keep her balance. There was just no way that she was leaving the comfort of the barrier, clenching the guardrail with all the strength she could muster. 

Ice skating wasn't her forte. In truth, as she had admitted earlier with a good deal of shyness in her voice, she hadn't stepped on an ice rink in more than twenty years. Greg had grinned at her little confession, refrained from ruffling her hair and suggested that they remedy to that immediately.  
They were just going out of the pub where they had met, feeling somewhat buzzed with beer and good company, their ears filled with each other's laughter. They were walking close to one another, elbows grazing, gravity pushing them on a collision course, when they had come across a sign that read “Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland – Ice Skating, Magical Ice Kingdom And More!”. 

And thus there they were, skates on their feet and gloves on their hands. The ice rink was filled up with people on this glacial December evening, of all ages, genders and colours. Christmas carols echoed in the night, drowned in the dozens of voices; chatting, laughing, screaming with joy or a good fright at a nearly-missed fall. The ice itself was ablaze with fairy lights. 

Molly was feeling completely embarrassed, to tell the truth, but this wasn't that bad. She was having fun, wasn't she? Her nose was pink with the wind and her fingertips were cold, but her lips were dancing in a variety of smiles, from small chuckles to big grins. It had been a while since she had felt so good, so free. Yes, they -were- free. Free of the burden of those two long years, free from those lost months of lying, hiding the truth to the world and to their friends, free from their duty to try and keep John's head above the water – and from their shame at failing miserably at doing so. John was better now; he got married, more or less, and he got some Sherlock back in his life, which was the best they could hope for, really. 

Of course, they were still worried – they could sense that secrets were being kept from them again. Such was life when one was dealing with something as improbable as Sherlock Holmes. They had gotten used to it, somewhere during the many years of supporting him from the side. Wasn't it good that their common friend had finally found some stability in his life? It was Sherlock who had brought them together in the beginning, after all. He had used Molly's lab like vacation trips in the countryside and Greg's cases like crosswords to pass the time, twisting their worlds together in the process. None of them could run through dark alleys or shoot the bad guys like John did, but then, none of them would actually have survived sharing a flat with Sherlock either. 

Sometimes, she caught herself doubting her luck, half-expecting to wake up from that dream. Her love life had been... well, ‘disaster’ didn't even begin to cover it. It had been hard to rebound from the whole Jim-from-IT thing and people knew better than mentioning Tom around her now, but still, she had found herself quite resigned of a life of solitude, which she deemed preferable to a life of falling for the wrong guys. She had fled the company of men and dived into her work. 

Then Greg had asked her on a date. A proper, official date. She had almost rejected him, but it came after a dozen or so instances of meeting randomly at the labs, followed by ‘catching up with a few drinks’, ‘Sherlock just did that thing again and I need to vent to someone who will understand’, ‘look my friend bailed on me and now I've got a spare ticket to see that band you happen to really like’, not to forget the infamous (but very effective), ‘I'm alone on a Friday night and I can't be bothered to cook, let's eat out – oh, here's a present, by the way’... and, in a way, it felt natural. The next step. Something logical, something safe. A date with Greg. 

And now there she was, trying not to make a complete fool of herself while catching up with the Detective Inspector – who was good at this, obviously. He slid on the ice without a care in the world, moving with an ease not unlike a fish swimming in water, getting closer to her when she seemed about to fall, gently encouraging her along as she struggled. 

She was starting to get it. Her legs were remembering – don't walk, don't step, just let yourself go and move forward. It had to come from within, from the hips and the pelvis. Greg's warmth was pulling her in, like the stars rise to greet the full moon. Under the changing rink lights, his silver hair shone white, red, green, blue. He looked a bit like the fae in the books of her childhood, an ever-changing creature of mischief, armed with a wicked smile. 

He took her hand as she was finally catching up and pulled her close, forcing her to let go of the guardrail. 

“Alright, then, now that you've got the hang of it, let's spice things up a bit.”  
“No, Greg, wait...”

But that was too late. Onward he pulled her, away from the safety of the barrier, taking her second hand in his.

“Look, you're good. You're doing great. Keep it up, Molly!”

Her limbs stiffened with sudden anxiety but Greg was having none of it, skating backward with not so much as a passing glance to make sure the way was clear, bringing them slowly but surely toward the centre of the rink. 

She had no choice but letting herself go, following his lead and placing her trust in his skill. Breathing in slowly, exhaling little puff cloud of silver smoke, she looked for courage in the firmness of his hands and started to push forward. Bit by bit, she grew confident, straightening her back and softening her grip on his fingers. Left, right, left, right – she could do it! She could skate, she really could. Greg let go of one of her hands. 

Molly flinched a bit but she was having too much a good time to panic. She found her balance again and put a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. 

“Okay, okay, I got this. But this is still ridiculous.”  
“No, this is not. Look at you there, being all steady and all. You're really doing fine!”

He smiled and eased his hold on her hand. She didn't let go, entwining their fingers, her cheeks blushing and her eyes avoiding his. She looked away for a few seconds, at the families, the groups of friends; the happy crowd surrounding them in an anonymous, cosy embrace. 

“Thank you, Greg. For taking me out tonight. And teaching me how to skate. It's really great.” Molly smiled, refraining from biting the inside of her mouth or looking at his lips. (Sherlock had once dumped onto her a dozen or so body language signs of sexual attraction, which had led to the very awkward realisation that he -knew-, goddamnit, and that she really needed to be way less obvious.) 

They fell in comfortable silence, drifting on the ice, simply enjoying each other's presence. 

The rink began to empty as the speakers announced the end-of-service message. They followed the crowd and gave their skates back. Amused at how comfortable their city shoes felt in comparison, they walked a bit more, roaming aimlessly around the park, neither of them wishing to bid the other good night. 

They stopped by food carts where they bought little cups of mulled wine, steaming hot in the cold night air, warming their throats and dying their lips.  
There was an ice exhibition; fairy queens and Saint Nicholas made of translucent, never-melting ice. They walked through arks of fantasy lands, strolling past high castle walls and dreamy scenes of winter fondness.  
She laughed as he imitated Anderson's retelling of his latest Fall theory. He listened as she confided about her difficulty to get her new co-worker to take her seriously. Minor issues, harmless chatter; the conversation ebbed and flowed as they walked on.  
The crowd was withering around them. Families had long gone home, groups of friends were parting ways and couples were planning their next dates. Reluctantly, they headed to the gates of the park. 

Soon, they were back in London, among its busy roads, the rumours of the city and its chaotic beauty; under the harsh light of the street lamps, away from the carols and the fairy lights that danced on the ice. 

Molly could still feel the sweet taste of the wine in her mouth, playing at the tip of her tongue. She wondered if she could taste it on Greg's lips, too. There was a bittersweet aching in her chest. They were saying goodbye and she couldn't take her eyes off him, wondering how and when he had gone from dishy-looking detective from the Met to a close friend she found herself wanting to kiss. 

“... So, let's say, next Friday? Seven? Would seven be good for you? Same place as last time?”  
“Uh, sure, sounds great. Yes, I'd love that.”

Yes, they could do just that. The 'same place as last time' could become the 'same place as usual', 'let's say, next Friday' could morph into 'see you next week'. Yes, maybe she could do just that. Have a little fun, loosen up a bit, forget about the long years of loneliness and delusion. Maybe they could even go and dance somewhere next time? She couldn't dance to save her life; maybe he could teach her. 

“Thanks again, Greg. I had a great time.”  
“Yeah, me too.”

Greg's brown eyes were gleaming golden in the yellow light of the pavement; he leaned toward her and the world stood still. The cars stopped, the noises faded to background music. Their noses touched and she felt his breath on her skin. She closed her eyes and titled her head so that their lips moved closer. 

Greg's phone rang, violent guitars riff that shook the world back to life. He swore under his breath and shot her an apologizing look. 

“Sorry, that one's my work emergency ringtone.”

She blinked and moved backwards, painting a smile on her face. She felt something vibrate in her pocket. Her own phone was demanding her attention. 

“Sure, sorry, go ahead.”

As he stepped back and took his call, she checked her mobile. 

'Bart's. Now. -SH'

Molly Hooper was a polite, well-behaved woman, but she couldn't help rolling her eyes and muttering a few swear words of her own. What the actual hell? The man's sense of timing was just horrendous. 

“Okay, got it, I'll be there in half an hour… Oh, great, and I don't even want to know how it's going to find me, then. I'll wait for the car, alright.”

Greg hung up, turned back to her and offered her a sad little smile. 

“Mycroft.” He explained with a worn-out shrug.

“Sherlock.” She answered, gesturing with her phone still in her hand.

“So, next Friday, then?”  
“Yes, next Friday. Sounds fun.”

Silence fell between them, but Molly knew better. Words unsaid and kisses unbloomed, that's what got people jumping from rooves. So she forced herself to smile, and to be brave, just once; just this once, to be the driving force pushing her life forwards, instead of just enjoying the ride. 

Molly stood on tip-toe, grabbed the collar of Greg's jacket and planted one single kiss on his lips. They did taste like mulled wine.

“It's okay”, she murmured.  
“It's okay”, she repeated, stepping back, blushing, embarrassed at her own boldness.  
“We can do this. You'll always run to Mycroft's and I'll always be there for Sherlock, but this... We can also do this too. You know? You and me. In their shadows. But together.”

He chuckled and put a loose lock back behind her ear.

“You bet we can.”

A black car pulled silently next to them. Greg's finger lingered a few second on her face, while the car's driver came out and opened the rear door. 

“See you next week, Molly Hooper.”  
“See you next week, Detective Inspector.”

His hand left her face but his softness stayed, keeping her warm as he got into the car, which took him away into the night. 

Molly took a deep breath and began walking towards Bart's. She shot a quick answer at Sherlock before retreating her hands into the warmth of her pockets. The night was cold and the air damp, but there was a lightness in her feet, a softness in her chest. No matter what poor sod had found themselves to be sliced opened on her lab bench, no matter whatever disagreeable remarks Sherlock would well-meaningly blurt her way, she was ready to take on the world, even if just for tonight.


	4. Day 4 – Christmas cards.

The cards were on the table. Literally.  
  
Mary got up, ruffled through them, sorting them by whatever order she could think of and sat back on the sofa again. Rinse, wash, repeat. She had been at it for hours now.  
The cards were on the table and she had meant to sign them and send them, had she not? That's what they had planned to do. That's what couples did. Especially married ones. On their first Christmas together. And they were still a couple, weren't they? Still married, or so she hoped. And it was definitively Christmas. Invited to the Holmses' and everything. So, cards. With their names on it. They had to send them. At least to the Holmses.  
  
Except that she couldn't sign them on her own and he was... back... there, where she couldn't reach him. That other man was attempting to salvage their marriage and he'd better succeed.  
  
_Season's greetings!_  
  
The writing was delightful, sleek letters in red and silver.  
  
_Mr and Mrs Watson wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year._  
  
The paper was nice, too. Thick enough to look rather expensive, but not too much either, with a lovely flock of birds flapping their wings at the edges. They had chosen it together, ages ago; there had been a discount on the internet. Or rather, she had chosen them and bugged him until he'd say yes. Because that's what loving married couples did, didn't they? Bicker and fight and reunite in the end. Or get a divorce. But a divorce wasn't really an option, now, was it, Mary?  
  
Mrs Watson let out a deep sight, got up and tried to ignore the cards. She went to the bedroom, straightened the bed linens, cleaned the windows and dusted the wardrobe. How could other women free themselves in cleaning? Her thoughts were still pursuing her. She needed to go and run, very fast, very hard, for a very long time. But that wasn't the plan. The plan was staying at home and waiting for a sign she'd knew would come.  
  
Divorce was not an option. John and her where meant to be together, forever. That was the deal, the pact they'd made. And he would come back to her, wouldn't he? He had no will of his own; doing anything the Holmes brothers or her would ask him to. Oh, he'd listen to her, in the end. He had no choice. He was hers, after all. Ah, what a cute little pet he was. Mary wanted to keep him next to her, with that look of resigned adoration on his cute little face, forever.  
  
The bedroom was spotless and the cards were still there. They came with envelopes and she had taken it upon herself to write their friends' names and addresses in the most delicate cursive she could produce. John's handwriting was rubbish, a doctor's scribble. It wouldn't do, wouldn't at all. How could John have managed that one on his own? Oh, couldn't he see that he needed her? That he belonged here, with her, instead of that sordid little apartment, with a madman for a flatmate and an old babbling witch for a landlady?  
  
Mary went to the kitchen, opened all the cupboards and emptied them, dusting each and every pieces of crockery. The bigger plates – of course, she was aware that there was some, one might say, infatuation between her John and the other one. The smaller plates – ugh, the mere thought wriggled her nose in disgust: the other one had a much better match, made in heaven, and John was meant to be hers. The bigger dishes – she needed the world to know that John Watson was hers; a wedding had only been the very beginning and the cards would make such a proper, lovely addition, and a perfectly British one at that. The smaller dishes – she needed the cards and she needed them now, lest her nerves would get the best of her.  
  
The possibility that he wouldn't come back reared its ugly nose at the back of her mind and she shut it down, slamming the dish-ware against the counter and grunting with anger. No more cleaning for her. That had never done her any good, anyway. It was all a facade she had put on for John. He was such a slob, the poor thing. Never did the groceries or the dishes. All he was good for was bringing the bacon home and waking her up with his little nightmares. But Mary wanted him by her side. He was her little thing, and hers only.  
  
The mere idea that he would not submit to her, now that he had her in his life, was utterly infuriating.  
  
She was, after all, the best thing that'd ever happened to him.  
  
Mary went out of the kitchen and tossed the cards out of her view, somewhere between two books she'd never read. She'll deal with them later, when he's there to sign them and send them along with her, like all proper British couples do. She took a deep breath. Okay, okay. She got this. She totally got this. With a new found determination, she walked to the bathroom. She'd fix her make-up and go to the gym. That was correct housewife behaviour, wasn't it? Make-up and the gym. One couldn't afford to be seen with a smeared lipstick.  
  
She closed the door as sweetly as she could, as not to disturb the neighbours. There was an advent calendar on the door next to hers. She forced herself to smile, counting down the days until Christmas. Of course, John was a bit upset right now – but everything was fine. Everything was the way it should be. Soon, it would be Christmas, and he would come back to her. Soon.


	5. Day 5 – The Ghost of Christmas Past

The first blow shakes the table, glasses spilling over, dishes waltzing with the cutlery. John jumps to his feet, throwing himself to his mother's side. The second blow hits harder, as it always does, and his mother starts to cry. Food lands on the carpet and the chairs tremble. He pats her shoulder as softly as he can and bears witness to the war unfolding before him. 

No guns for today's battle, in all its domestic gore and glory.

The telly is still playing Christmas carols on repeat from the music channel. The air is heavy with the smell of tobacco and food that's now going to waste.

His father and Harriet stand, face to face, in the theatre of their cramped living room.

His face is distorted, frowned eyes and clenched jaws, his right hand still in the air, the other one warped in a fist. 

She is grinning. She is always grinning. Her lips part slightly to take a sip of eggnog. Her fingers are twisted around the glass, knuckles white, tightened to hide the trembling she must be fighting back. His palm left a red mark on her cheek. It'll take two days to resorb. She'll wear it like a badge of honour. 

“All I'm sayin' is...”

“Nobody gives a shit what you have to say! Watch your fucking mouth when you're in my home!”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. There's a tremor in her leg. Her foot starts tapping an imaginary drum pedal. 

“Now you fucking apologise, Harriet Griselda Watson, and you go to your fucking room.”

His voice is hoarse and his eyes narrowed, two small dark pearls of burning wrath. He is trying to control himself. The chairs aren't even flying, after all. 

Harry's not moving. She should cry and she should lay low, that's what John thinks. But Harry doesn't cry and she keeps her head high. 

John wants to step forward; he wants to tell them to stop. He wants to ask Harry to apologize and stop bringing the bloody subject on the table, again and again. He wants to tell her that nobody cares about AIDS and candlelit vigils. He wants to talk his father down, to make him understand that he is not helping either. He wants to tell him to stop answering with slurs and disdain. But his mother is crying and needs someone to hold her hand. So he just stays there, and watches, and holds her hand. 

For a short while, the silence is unbearable. It drowns the bloody songs from the telly and the grunts from his father.

Then Harry takes a deep breath. Her eyes lights up, her smile widens. 

“No. I'm not going to my room. I've had enough with your shit, dad. You guys can stay here in the nineteenth century.”

And she turns away. To the door. She wants to leave.

All hell breaks loose. 

She hasn't moved far when her father grabs her hair and turns her back to him, yelling things that John wishes he could delete from his memory. His mother is sobbing now, trying to come between them. John dives into the fight, but it's too late. Harry is struggling, her glass falling to her feet, her hands getting her father's, grasping, pulling, pushing, her shrieks roaring through his howling.  
There's kicking, there's punching, there's mother with a nasty blow to the temples, staggering, dropping to her knees, crying, begging, praying, will they please stop, will they stop please, please, she loves them, will they please stop, but nobody's listening. John has fire in his veins and a blur before his eyes. The blows keep shaking the three of them, trapped in this chaotic embrace. 

It lasts a minute, it lasts an hour, until Harry sets free. She dashes to the exit, clinging to the handle, holding to the frame. Her hands act on their own, they open the door, her feet step on the threshold. She takes a deep, long breath and faces them one last time. John is holding his father back. Her mother is whimpering on the floor, among food scraps and wine stains. The telly is still playing. 

It hurts when she speaks. It hurts because she took a good one to the mouth and because her heart is breaking. Still, she speaks. Words she had dreamt to say. Words she had repeated to herself, when she couldn't sleep at night, words she had meant to shout but which come out as quiet as a bitter whisper. She's breathless.

“I'm leaving. I really am. And you can't stop me. I'm an adult now. And you know what? I'm one of them. The perverts, dad. I'm one of them. I'm homosexual, and you're never, ever seeing me again. Merry... fucking... Christmas!”

And she leaves. She really does, slamming the door behind her. The living room shakes one last time. 

It's cold outside. It really is. Fuck, it's cold outside. Harry breathes again, trying to calm down, rubbing her hands against each other in a vain attempt to bring some heat to her bruised fingers. Fuck, it's cold outside. She needs to calm the fuck down. She needs to calm down. 

The street is quiet, as it always is. All the little houses with their little front-yards, all decorated in the spirit of the season, all glowing with golden lights and the promise of warmth. She makes a few hesitant steps. The snow crisps quietly under her feet. What now? The stars are shining above the clouds. She's breathless, she's hurt, but she's alive. She fights back the tears. She's alive. She can do this. She's an adult now. 

Harry walks up to the gate and that's when the door opens behind her. There's shouting and crying inside the house. Her parents' voices. She can't help but looking back.  
John's there, with blood on his face. Her heart breaks. She smiles. Her lips are chafed, creaking. She might have blood on her face as well. 

“Hey, Johnny boy.” He always answers ‘don't call me that’, except this time.  
“I'm sorry I've dragged you into this mess, John.”

Silence. Her voice will not break. 

“I really am. Look...”

He walks outside, with timid steps. 

She licks her lips. That hurts. The iron taste of blood. Great, now she looks like a real lesbian warrior. 

“Look, you could come with me, you know?”

He clenches his hands into a fist and let them loose again. No answer.

“There's a shitton of place at Clara's. Her grandma's lovely, you could come and live with me there. We'll be fine. You don't have to stay here. You can come with me.”

His father calls for him. John winces. His hands, again. Clenching them, letting them loose.

She keeps on talking. Her voice is shaking. 

“Look, Miranda saw you in the locker room. With that bloke from Maidenhead. It's okay, you know. Come with me, okay? We can sort out our shit together. We can be okay.”

His father calls again, louder. John looks back, to the house, then to Harry again. 

She forces herself to smile. Her hand reaches out to him. 

“Come on, Johnny boy. Come with me. Please.” 

He doesn't move. They stand there, silently, her hand opens, his still on the door. 

An eternity passes them by. 

He turns back. 

She will spend the next ten years wondering what went through his head. She'll never understand. 

She's too proud to call but her hand lingers in the air as the space between them grows wider. 

The door closes behind him, with a little clink. She thinks that it's the saddest sound she's ever heard. 

Her arm falls back to her side. Tears come crashing down at the gate of her eyes, flooding her face in a downpour of bitterness. She's going to be okay. She's an adult now. She's going to be okay, even if she's not right now. It's cold outside and she walks in her pyjamas on the snowy pavement. Her body moves on its own volition. She walks until she's out of sight from the house. She stops under a street lamp, to bask in the pool of light for a little while. Her nails are destroyed and her make-up is ruined. She has nothing save the clothes she's wearing, no money to her name and no safety net. A drink. She needs a drink. A smoke would be nice, too.

Harry swallows back her last tears and marches on. 

Alright, then. To Clara's it is. Which way is the shortest?


	6. Day 6 – Naughty and Nice

The neon lights shone brightly above the underground entrance. They read “Vanilla” in bold, colourful letters – pink, lavender and blue. Half a dozen people were gathered at the top of the stairs, smoking and laughing, exchanging drinks and banter. John Watson was there, too, just across the street. Pairs of prying eyes shot him ogling glances from time to time. He did his best to ignore them.

Sherlock was late, of course. That wasn’t surprising. Sherlock would always arrive precisely when he meant to, which often didn’t match with the time he’d asked John to show up at. Arrogant prick.

Especially with the precise instructions he had left him with. Play on the military kink, he’d said. Pretend you’re going to swoon all those young women, he’d said. With this perfectly serious, blank face of his.

‘It’s for a case, John. We need to look the part.’ That’s what he had said.

The case bit was true, though. A murderer was on the loose, one that only targeted gay males between thirty and forty-five years-old. Sherlock had deduced that the Vanilla would be the stage of the next killing and that the felon would act discreetly and carefully enough to require an undercover operation. It had seemed like a reasonable explanation, back in the comfortable intimacy of their Baker Street apartment.

It didn’t sound reasonable at all now, in the street, under the pale city light. What if they’d meet anyone they knew? People would talk. People were already looking, looking at John, with his dark green trousers that fit a bit too well, his tight white shirt with the dog-tags on top and his cameo jacket rolled up at his elbows. Well, of course they’d be looking – he was dressed to be looked at. He hadn’t done that in ages, spicing up his looks. Women usually liked him for his guy-next-door Britishness, so he had had to ask Harry for help. She had helped him choose his outfit and she had found it hilarious. He hadn’t seen her laugh so much in a very long time. That had been nice.

A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd and their attention shifted from him to the end of the street. John turned his head and almost caught his jaw dropping to the floor.

The devil himself was coming his way.

The man walked with swift, powerful strides, the heels of his doc marten’s clapping along in the humming of the night. Never-ending legs sprang him forward, clad in skin-tight black trousers As he grew closer, John realised that had in fact spent the better half of a minute staring at Sherlock Holmes, his bloody flatmate, who wore a fishnet top underneath a blue velvety coat.

A fishnet top. Sherlock Holmes.

There should be a law against that.

Against the pale, immaculate skin showing through the net, the well-defined lines of the chest… What about public indecency? He was sure there were rules against that. Maybe he should call Lestrade. (Wait, no, actually, he shouldn’t. The DI had enough embarrassing materials on him already.)

Was there any limit to how far that man would go for a case, really?

John managed to regain his composure and walked the last few steps up to Sherlock.

“Took you long enough.”

Damn. Eyeliner. Sherlock was wearing eyeliner. It suited him, too, enhancing his deep blue eyes and the porcelain-like quality of his skin. His features were deepened as well, through the expert use of some make-up. Even his black curls had been the subject of some dark, terrible magic, as they looked even more delightful than usual.

“Ready?”

John followed him without a word, passing the group of smokers who didn’t even pretend not to stare at them all the way to the door. Who could have blamed them, really? They looked like they had stepped right out of a teenage girl’s secret stash of gay porn magazines.

The bouncer let them in immediately. A cute, young person of undetermined gender in a fairy outfit, glittery wings and all, approached them and offered them bracelets.

“Hi there, lovelies! Welcome to our annual Nice or Naughty Night. Are you guys like regulars or should I give you a quick recap?”

“I don’t think that this will be…”

John slightly nudged Sherlock. He would actually like to know what to expect, thank you very much.

“Yes, please. Yes. That would be… lovely.”

The fairy flashed a huge smile and two rows of mesmerising white teeth.

“It’s fairly simple, really. You got two groups, Nices and Naughties. Nices get white bracelets, Naughties get red ones. You need to get as many bracelets from the other team as possible. Every time you get someone’s bracelet, you get a free drink. You can get a new bracelet if you give yours away by buying a drink. Whoever has the most bracelets by 2 am gets free bottle service.”

That sounded like a game Harry would come up with.

“Sounds fun. I’ll have a red one.”

“Yeah. Give me a white one, please.”

“Ooh, competition? That’s awesome, guys! We have a lot of open couples and poly around here. You’ll fit right in.”

“We’re not a…”

It was Sherlock’s turn to nudge him. Oh, yeah. True. Playing the part.

John rolled his eyes and refused to look at Sherlock, who was probably grinning, as the fairy happily adorned their respective wrists with bracelets. They thanked – her? him? them? – and moved on.

The club was packed, music blasting through the speakers, the dance floor filled with a happily soused crowd. John hadn’t gone to a night club in ages, and boy, wasn’t this one just outrageous. The lighting was entirely pink, lavender and blue, with mirrors and columns on the walls, decorated in a style that could only be defined as the lovechild of goth, chic and baroque. The music wasn’t bad either, generic but loud and catchy. The DJ probably knew what he was doing.

They made it to the bar unharmed and Sherlock ordered them drinks; dark-looking cocktails that tasted too sweet not to be treacherous. There was no way to talk in this noise, so they just settled in comfortable non-communication, John trying to relax and Sherlock scanning the crowd.

A few minutes and a couple songs passed. John was feeling much better now. The drinks were helping. Not directly looking at Sherlock and ignoring the blush on his cheeks was helping. The feeling of anonymity, of losing one’s sense of self in a crowd was helping. He hadn’t been a party animal, well, at least not since his army days, when every single occasions to have a drink and forget about the blood, the cries, the dust, the heat and the dying had been a welcome change of pace. This was different, though. This was work. This was for a case. The make-up, the revealing outfits, Sherlock’s hand brushing his arm as he got them another rounds of drinks, the heat that crept around his limbs, the knot slightly forming in his stomach – this was all for the part they were meant to play. Looking like two gay blokes amongst a sea of, well, gay blokes, and gals, and in-betweens.

He had been one of them once, he wouldn’t deny it. That was over now, obviously. That had been nothing more than the fires of youth, fuelled by the emergency of an impending death on the field. Now that the threat was mostly gone, that he had survived – well, he was an adult, responsible, married man. With a job and everything. He had to act like one, from time to time.

A slight tap to his shoulder shook him out of his thoughts. Sherlock motioned him to follow him, his eyes locked to a man on the other side of the club, who eerily looked like the police sketch they had been given. John wouldn’t have minded starting the pursuit right away, but his flatmate had other plans, taking him by the wrist and pulling him towards the dance floor.

What the hell?

They were now in the middle of the crowd and Sherlock pulled him close in one swift move, bringing his cheek next to his own and whispering in his ears.

“Just play the part, John. Follow my lead.” His voice seemed richer than usual, his whisper bringing shivers down his spine.

The music changed to [something slower, something Latin, something hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMZ-0xhuMBk). Sherlock pushed him away, stepped back and started to dance.

It started softly, a few taps of the foot, balancing his shoulders, his long, delicate hands drawing imaginary arabesques in the smoky air. Then Sherlock started to move his hips, softly, following the beat. John gulped. It was not hard not to stare – it was bloody impossible. He did know that Sherlock could dance but he had never imagined that his friend could do it so well. A wave of heat came over him. Was he supposed to dance, too?

Sherlock saw his confusion – like he couldn’t just see right through him, all the bloody time – but kept on dancing, his movement becoming deeper, more suggestive. People were looking at him, now. Someone would step in, any moment moment, and dance with Sherlock. That was how night club etiquette went, right? For some reason, the mere thought – the mere thought of Sherlock dancing with another man – turned his stomach inside out. John felt terribly awkward, out of place, struggling for breath. He could already see, in the corner of his eyes, two men encouraging a third one to just go for it. The doctor clenched his jaw. He had faced death in Afghanistan and he was not going to bow down in front of a Latin ballad. There was no going down without a fight.

Dancing. Right. Sherlock had shown him the waltz, that was true, but before that, there had been evenings at Harry’s – in his younger, wilder days. Hanging out with her crowd had taught him a thing or two. Wasn’t now a perfect time to see if he remembered any of it?

John moved his shoulders, looking for balance, looking for rhythm. There was a wave there, something to ride, something to play with. He just needed to find it. Oh, and he had hips, too. Maybe he could move those. Reach out his arms, let the music hold him. Let go of the embarrassment, the peer pressure, the everything. Just let go, eyes half-closed, and dance.

It wasn’t all that bad, was it?

Maybe this was a battle he could fight.

Sherlock’s hand took his not a few seconds later, bringing him close again, his other hand spreading on his shoulder blade. They were very close, chests against chests, John’s free hand naturally falling on Sherlock’s hips, his face buried in his neck.

Sneaking glances to the most handsome man he had ever laid his eyes on, his bare skin under the fishnet – following the line of the jaw, the collarbone, the torso, stopping right before the nipples or he would just loose his bloody mind – John took a deep breath. Sherlock’s scent overcame him, a delicious flavour of musk, sweat and body parts.

What was this dance called? He had no idea. Couldn’t be tango. Maybe salsa? Rumba? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. They were playing with each other, pushing the other away, bringing him close, never letting go.

‘Just follow my lead’. Oh, I don’t think so, Sherlock. I don’t think so. John started to get a hang of the steps and thrust his pelvis harder, broadening his moves and quickening the pace. And Sherlock followed along, until nobody knew whoever was leading, but they were both having a lot of fun.

The song morphed into another one, but they kept on dancing, floating in a sea of warm embers, basking in the purple light. Sherlock’s lowered his hand, little by little, as they grew ever closer, their body now locked into one, surfing the same wave.

It happened organically, their pelvis touching, John raised his head, Sherlock lowered his, John’s lips parted, devoured by a thirst they had repressed for too long… Sherlock grabbed his dogtags, drawing him close, so close that their breaths caressed each other’s skins, and shouted “Here’s our man! Now!”

The magic broke, the wave crashed against the seashore. Sherlock let go of his hand and dashed toward the toilets. John followed him, the thrill of the chase only momentarily covering the growing sorrow in his heart.

They just played the part.


	7. Day 7 – The Nutcracker

The Covent Garden was full, packed to the brim for one of its annual Christmas performances of the Nutcracker. John Watson was there, too, in a suit that didn’t suit him at all. He still had trouble accepting that he had actually agreed to come along his sister. He hated ballet, after all. Not a real man’s hobby, as his father had once told him. 

Alas, there was no helping it. Harry’s girlfriend, Clara, was playing one of the lead roles in this year’s “young and hopeful” cast, which had allowed her to invite two people of her choosing. She could have invited any friends of hers, but in a gesture of goodwill and openness, she had chosen her future brother-in-law. Therefore, in a gesture of returned goodwill and openness, John Watson found himself sitting on the posh red seats, his quietness offering a fresh and somewhat dignified counterpart to his sister’s excitement.

She was literally beaming, sporting a dark blue dress that would not have seemed out of place at a Renaissance fair, historically-accurate modesty and all. But she looked happy and that’s all that mattered, even when she was clapping before the show had actually started.

“Oh, Johnny, this is it! I can’t believe this! Clara’s been wanting to get this part for ages, and here we are! Her career is about to skyrocket, you’ll see. She’s going to be a star in no time.”  
“Be careful that she doesn’t ditch you for a prettier, younger woman, then.”  
“Nah, it’s old men who do that. Us lesbians only ditch each other for an older, more experienced woman, or our best friend’s ex. Never widen the dating pool, that’s the rule.”

Their chuckles earned them a stern look from the very British-looking gentleman on their right, who rightfully hoped that they wouldn’t keep their indecent chatter once the play would begin. It was true that there was movement in the orchestra pit; the show was about to start. The lights dimmed and Harry squeezed his hand, grinning feverishly.

… Underwhelming. It was, well, underwhelming. The music wasn’t bad per se, although John was by no means an expert. It was… nice, mellow, easy on the ear. He was sure he had heard the tune in a commercial or something. Nothing much was happening, though. The curtains had yet to rise, nothing was happening on stage. And even when it did, well, it was just … people dancing. Clara wasn’t on stage yet, so he didn’t even need to look adequately in awe, and he was seriously wondering why people would actually pay – and a lofty sum at that – to go and see this.

Sure, the colours were nice and the costumes quite revealing. He could feel that there must have been a lot of work put into this; a lot of sweat, practice and sacrifices had been made by these young lassies and lads pouring their heart and their limbs on the stage. He just found it difficult to get into it. There was nothing to really get into, no plot to follow – some nonsensical story about a wonderful Christmas party at some rich folks’ big house, a weird old dude that the booklet named as Dros-something, the toymaker, and dancing dolls. Who were actually dancers pretending to be dancing dolls. Great.

A little dancing girl pretends to be really happy to receive a broken toy as a Christmas gift, right, like that ever happened in real life. Now it’s become night, little girl goes to bed, okay…  
John was starting to drift into a comfortable doze when the music changed abruptly and his sister nudged him violently. “Don’t fall asleep now”, she whispered, “the best part is about to begin”.  
Clapping his tongue, John straightened up his back on his seat and tried to focus on the play. Little girl had awoken up, now, in what looked to be the middle of the night. She was playing with the dancing dolls, when, surprise, giant mice appeared! Well, dancers disguised as giant mice, at least. The rodents formed a circle, doing whatever dance giant rodents were supposed to do, capturing the little girl. John was about to go back to his nap when, in a flash, the Mice Tsar appeared.

Now, the Mice Tsar was something else entirely.  

Clad in a bright, red uniform, adorned with a huge rat head with a cheese slice for a crown, he could have looked ridiculous, laughable, childish; but there was a strength in his movement, a fire in his spin that glued John to his seat.

The Tsar had force, he had passion, he had charisma; he reminded John of a superior of his, as he ordered his Mice troop to attack the tin soldiers (who had somehow arrived on stage without John noticing).

“Pretty good, huh?” Harry smiled as she murmured in his ears. John could not take his eyes off the stage. “That’s Wee S.”

“Who?”

The Tsar was not just dancing. He was springing, spinning, reaching out his limbs, throwing himself into battle, never losing balance, never losing control.

“Wee S. William Something, we don’t know him. Clara’s never met him, but everyone says he’s a prick. Tried to date Victor – the prince – but it fell out.”

Oh, yes, there was a prince on stage, too, leading the little soldiers. Who was now duelling with the Mice Tsar. Well, that one was a no-brainer. The Prince wasn’t half bad but the Tsar knew what he was doing. The Prince was cornered.

“… Victor’s with Rupert now. Remember Rupert Mulgrave, Sebastian’s roommate?”

They fought bravely, swords clashing, legs and arms doing things John was sure weren’t meant to be that suggestive.

“… Who?” John wasn’t really listening. There was sweat on the palms of his hands, clenched on the armrests.

Some very angry, very British lady snapped her fan in an unequivocal manner behind them, right as the little girl threw her sleeper at the Tsar, in a pathetic attempt to overthrow the course of the fight.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll tell you later.” Harry whispered, and that was the end of it.

It really was the end, really. The Tsar collapsed, in a theatrical fashion, legs giving up, arms falling to his sides, his pale neck opened, a flash of pure skin between the costume and the mask. The mice retreated, carrying their king offstage.

John kept expecting – hoping? – to see him make his grand return, but instead, all he got was little girl becoming super-duper-‘ohmygosh-it’s-her-John-it’s-her’ Clara, and off she went with the Prince, in some strange land with… dancing candies? With a candy fairy?

Is that why Harry was drinking so much? Because Clara dragged her along to see that sort of stuff every couple of weeks?

She did seem to enjoy it, though. She squeezed his hand every time Clara moved which, given the circumstances, happened quite often. Diagnosing a textbook case of Stockholm Syndrome, doctor-in-training John Watson settled comfortably in his seat again. Maybe he would at least see him at curtain call…?

But the Mice Tsar didn’t make it to the row of applause. Nobody seemed to mind. His name wasn’t even on the booklet. John showed it to Harry and she just shrugged.

“Told you, didn’t I? Weirdo. Or… did my little brother had a crush on a danseur? So cute, for a rugby player!”

“Oh, shut up, Harriet Watson, don’t be ridiculous. Come on, let’s go and congratulate Clara.”


	8. Day 8 / 12 / 15 / 16 – "Family"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: _Baking_  
>  Day 12: _Ugly Christmas jumpers_  
>  Day 15: _Christmas Party_  
>  Day 16: _Family traditions_
> 
> The ugly Christmas jumper was inspired by this [most awesome fanart](http://taikova.tumblr.com/post/135255365498/ofcowardiceandkings-rutobukaisdead).

“It's a fucking family tradition. I knew you'd forgotten.”

There's flour on the floor, white powder adorning the carpet in snow hills and arctic plains. 

“Harry, we don't have family traditions.”

There's butter melting on the hotplate – directly on the plate, the flame softly burning the wrapping; long, greasy rivers of fat running down the oven onto the linoleum. 

“That's because we didn't have a family, John, but now we have one, so. Family tradition. Christmas cake baking party. Makes perfect sense.” 

There's a bag of sugar, ripped open in Greg's hands, who's happily snoring on the sofa. There's Molly sat on the floor, her head resting on the DI's lap, a half-broken chocolate bar stuck in her hair. 

The words “baking” and “party” can hold several meanings, especially when Harriet is involved; but John Watson doesn't really want to think about those right now. 

“Harry...”

There's no word for it, really. 

For the state of the flat. For the reek of alcohol, sweat and burnt chemicals. For Sally Donovan and Mrs Hudson, sound asleep, with their faces resting on their hands, in the middle of what can't have been anything else but a game of Custard Poker on the living room table. For bloody Mike Stamford curled up on the rug by the fireplace. 

For the mountain of microscopes, beakers, syringes and bottles of chemicals, not-so-neatly set aside on one end of the kitchen table; next to which start the high range of beakers repurposed as measurement cups, where a steady little stream of food colouring – he hopes it's food colouring – drips from broken syringes down into a pool of half-cracked eggs. 

And there's Harriet Watson, hair dyed purple, shaved in a blazing mohican; clad in a tailored suit that probably costs more than her rent. And she's just standing there, her jacket over her shoulders, shirt rolled up to her elbows, kneading dough like it's the most beautiful thing that she has ever laid her eyes on. A wonder of nature. An act of creation. 

John could shout, he could get angry, he could throw her out. But he can't. He can't. Because now, he sees him. 

He sees it. 

His eyes have followed the trail of vanilla pods, half-empty Rum bottles, cinnamon sticks and sprinkles to a chair facing Harry across the table, on which Sherlock is crouched, his long hands steepled next to his face, deeply lost in his mind palace. Harry's been using him as a towel hanger. 

But it's not the dirty rags hanging from his fingers that necessarily worry John, no, it's the sweater.  
Sherlock's wearing his purple shirt, over which a blue, hand-knit sweater has been put.  
It's blue, white and not very well made. Loose threads are hanging out, but one can make out the design quite easily. A couple of deer, their muzzles touching, their antlers framing joyful, bold letters. “Ho Ho Homo”. 

John is no consulting detective but all clues seem to determine that Sherlock has in fact put on said sweater willingly – probably before retreating to his mind palace, in an attempt not to blow off the place.

Now, John's spent a very long night on a particularly unpleasant house-call and, frankly, he should know better, but still, he asks. 

“What?”

His sister looks up to him, an innocent look on her face. 

“Cookies, John. I'm baking cookies. It's the only thing we were sure we couldn't fail, with us not knowing the kitchen and all.”

“No. I mean. What? How?”

“Oh.” Her smile widens. “Take your coat off and find somewhere to sit, little brother. It's story time!”

\- - - 

It was one of those boring moments where Sherlock found it really hard not to smoke. John was at his terrible place of employment and had left him to fend against the dullness on his own. Nothing was happening. No case, no call, no nothing. Just lying on the sofa, his feet on the armrest, waiting. Not smoking. 

Dull. Boring. Tedious. 

The door creaked below and he didn't move. One set of steps walking up the stairs, with a short pause in front of his door. Client, then. Female. Early forties. Laden down with bags of various sizes. Probably out shopping, decided to come on a whim or a sudden fit of courage. An embarrassing affair, then. Likely something to do with her husband cheating on her with the underage maid. Dull. 

The door to the flat eventually opened and the client came in. He barely glanced at her. Purple hair, no make-up, used to have piercings, expensive suit, shopping bags. Boring. 

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. I come for a case!”

A cheerful tone in her voice. Oh, great, a character. Tedious. 

“She's cheating on you.” 

He hadn't moved, why bother? He went back to observing the ceiling. To not smoking. 

“Nice try, Mr Holmes, but I'm single.”

The woman took a few steps around the place, taking it in, until she found the kitchen and started to unload her bags on the table, next to his precious experiments. 

Now he needed to move – there was some folly there that he was not sure he was going to approve of. There was a fine line between not-boring and downright unpleasant that that woman had just jumped merrily across. He stood up and looked at her properly. 

Alcoholic, cat person, lesbian, definitively had sex in the past twelve hours, wears expensive men's suits, has family in Scotland... Oh.

Oh. 

“Harriet Watson.”  
“Yeah? Everyone just calls me Harry.”

She answered without looking up, refraining from yelping at the body parts in the fridge and stuffing said fridge with bottles of various alcoholic beverages.

Sherlock wasn't interested, of course not, but he could always use her to learn more about John. He knew that they were estranged and he also knew that John regretted it. She could probably confirm or infer some of his theories. 

“Woaaah, you even have feet in there. Feet. Crazy. Anyway. My case. Wanna hear it?”

He didn't answer. She was going to tell him anyway. 

“It's not an easy one, but I'm afraid you're the only one up the task. And I can pay you, I can pay you very well. So. Here it is. What is... What is John Watson's favourite cake?”

\- - - 

It was one of those painful moments when Greg started thinking that there was, indeed, a God somewhere. And that He hated him. And his whole team.  
His desk was overflowing with paperwork, files to sort out, reports to write, stuff to sign. Stuff, stuff, stuff. Ugh. He hated it. On a Friday night, too, when all a bloke wants is a cold one down at the pub with his mates. 

Gregory Lestrade was begging for something to happen – a murder, something gruesome, hell, even something that would require Sherlock – and almost jumped to his feet when he felt his phone vibrate. 

'What is John's favourite cake? -SH'

What? Okay, he had been told to be careful what he wished for, but, seriously, what?

Surprise hadn't left his face before a second text reached him. 

'You go to drinks together. Highly probable you once talked about pastries. This is for a case. Answer immediately. -SH'

“I have no bloody idea, mate.” He hadn't even realised he had spoken out loud. With a resigned sigh, he sat back in his chair. What was the deal with John, a cake and a case?

“Something the matter, sir?”

Sally's face was popping above her own sea of bureaucratic madness. 

“Sherlock wants to know what John's favourite cake is.”

She chuckled, mouthed the word 'freak' and then gave it some thought. It was more interesting than filling out forms, at least. 

“Didn't he take crackers, last time? At the pub?”

His phone vibrated in Greg's hand. 

'Don't ask Sally. Crackers are not cakes. -SH'

Silence fell in the office. Sally pretended to go back to her work but the DI could tell better. It was a late Friday night, there was no emergency and he was not sure they could legally clock in some more overtime, at that point. 

“You know what, Sergeant? I reckon this is rather suspicious.”

“You're right, sir. Maybe we should go and investigate.”

\- - - 

'Do you know anything about John's taste in cakes? -Greg.'

'What? No! Wait, I'll ask Mike. -Molly'

'Thanks love. -Greg'

'Hihi. Mike says he doesn't know. He asks why. I ask too. -Molly.'

'No idea. Sherlock asked. You free tonight? -Greg'

'What? That's weird. Something Sherlock doesn't know! And yes I'm free. Why? -Molly.'

'Meet me in Baker Street later? I have Sergeant Donovan on the case. Bring Mike, we need reinforcement. -Greg'

\- - -

Mrs Hudson opened the door and her face softened as she recognised Greg. The little party had been hearing the music blasting from the window from at least two blocks away, and now they could smell it too. 

“Oh, Detective Inspector, I'm so glad you're here. Maybe you can smack some sense into him. He... has... with that woman... They've been at it for hours!”

A shiver shook the group and it wasn't out of comic relief provided by Mrs Hudson's outrage. Sherlock? At it? With a woman? 

Wasn't Irene Adler supposed to be dead? 

They jumped the stairs as fast as they could, the landlady in tow.

\- - - 

It was one of those atrocious moments where Mycroft really wondered where he had gone wrong. Well, he knew – he was Mycroft Holmes, after all – but that didn't make it any easier. He had, very reluctantly, accepted to take his bugs out in Sherlock's flat. It had happened after one of their tender brotherly discussions that had left him with a sore arm for the better part of a week. As much as he wished to keep his limbs in fully functional capacity, he could no longer ignore the signs. 

Noise complaints from various neighbours in Baker Street were unfortunate occurrences. They were not to be taken too seriously. Catching half of his list of Sherlock's persons of interests on CCTV on their way to 221 B, and not seeing them exiting the flat after two hours and a half – that was a bit more worrying. 

Worrying enough to cancel his less urgent appointment, call the car and pay his brother a little impromptu visit, his ever faithful assistant in his shadow. And wasn't he glad that she was there, when he opened the door to the apartment and she deflected an unknown half-baked good that was going right for his immaculate jacket. 

“Retreat, sir?”

Before his eyes laid the mere essence of nightmares; a chaos and violence that even he, with his years of gruesome fieldwork experience, was not sure he could sustain. 

This was definitively worse than Serbia.

“Retreat, indeed.”

She closed the door. Their eyes met and they both silently agreed never to mention this again. With a little sigh, he went back to stopping wars and toppling dictators, although, for reasons that he could not quite grasp, the vision of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade dancing shirtless on the coffee table stubbornly refused to fade from his mind. 

\- - -

“Harry, I don't have a favourite cake.”

She raises her head from the dough. He's not even sure you're supposed to put whipped cream in cookies but he can't risk telling her.

“Harry,” he repeats, half-laughing at the sheer absurdity of it, his fingers massaging his temples. “Harry, I don't have a favourite cake. I don't even like cakes.”

She chuckles quietly and leaves the dough alone, sweeping her hands on her trousers. 

“I know, right? But he's looking, boy, he's thinking really hard about it.” She nods towards Sherlock in the ridiculous gay deer sweater and smiles. It's a sweet, soft smile that he hasn't seen on her face for a while. “Hasn't moved for the past, what, six hours?”

She yawns. 

“God, I guess I'm about to crash too. Stuff has to rest for two hours anyway.”

Harry stretches and claps her tongue. It's been a long day. Night. Whatever.

Is cookie dough supposed to rest? He doesn't know and, once again, doesn't ask. Some things are better left unsaid. 

“Your bedroom's the one upstairs, right? Can I crash there real quick? Promise, I'll get everything clean and nice. Oh, there's Alka-Seltzer in one of the bags. For when they all wake up and wish they were already dead.”

She doesn't wait for his answer, moving towards the stairs. As she passes by him, she gently pats his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, little brother.”

“Thanks, Harry. Merry Christmas.” 

He answers on auto-pilot. She leaves. He's alone, alone among the mess, the filth and the smell. He's alone but he is not angry any more. He just sits there, with an undefinable warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> First time trying my hand at fanfiction, comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated. Many thanks to [Tanouska](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanouska/pseuds/Tanouska) for beta-reading this!


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